


The Lipstick Stains On Your Vest

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Deutschland 83, Deutschland 86
Genre: Blow Jobs, Crossdressing, First Time, Forbidden Relationships, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, Lust, M/M, Rocky Horror Picture Show References, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 04:31:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18771238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: So I watched the finale of Deutschland '86 (having absolutely loved the series and the one that went before it) and, when it came to this scene at the end, I was rubbing my hands thinking "Cor, they're going to have a bit here" - because, let's face it, the show doesn't exactly shy away from same-sex action. And I was sorely disappointed! Damn and blast.So I wrote this to remedy my own pain - I just couldn't stop thinking of the slashy undercurrent in this scene and the thought of Walter being seduced by a cross-dressing American agent wearing fishnet stockings.





	The Lipstick Stains On Your Vest

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the ending of this series in comments.

Well, it wasn't every day you opened your door to find _that_.

It was a cliché, alright; he was frothing at the mouth over a pair of long legs in fishnet stockings and suspenders, tapering down to patent high-heels - a lithe body in a titillating two-part basque, finished off with a feather boa.

What wasn't a cliché was the fact that it was a _man_ wearing all of the above. It wasn't an everyday occurrence in East Berlin to see such a thing, but the American Embassy had put on a production of the Rocky Horror Show and Walter's neighbour, who he was used to seeing out here on the landing - only, usually, considerably more conservatively dressed - had been playing the role of Brad - and now was standing here, half-cut and even _less_ than half-dressed. And Schweppenstette couldn't help his eyes from drifting south to the swelling of the man's genitals bulging in feminine underwear; an item of clothing which should only have been worn by women and an area which should have been smooth and bump-free, he tried to tell himself.

"Hey," he had hissed, and the gravelly whisper sent a shiver along Walter's spine. He mentally berated himself for even considering such sordid thoughts. This was US agent _Hector_   _Valdez_ he was talking to, though _why_ he was knocking on his door at this time of night, he couldn't quite yet fathom. "How did you like the show?" the questioned was asked.

"It's the middle of the night." What did he want with him? What _could_ he have _wanted_ with _him_ , at this hour?

"It's actually early in the morning," he corrected him, and received a sour look for his trouble. "Look. I was thinking that maybe you had a key to my place..?"

"I? Why?" Walter played innocent, knowing full well that he did _indeed_ have a spare key to the flat.

"Because I lost mine in Kreuzberg. And I don't want to wake up my wife, Maria, because... if she finds out I was dancing with Katie, she'll kill me."

"No, no... I mean, why do you think I have a key to your apartment?" he knew he was in a losing battle with this one; Hector wasn't stupid - he would have to relent.

"I'll tell you what... I'm gonna wait right here... and you go call whoever you have to call--"

"--I'd rather you came in," Walter said, an uneasy welcome, ushering him into the space. And, when he received a slightly puzzled look, he added, "Bitte." _Please_. All the Stasi agent could think of was the embarrassment of anyone seeing such a... creature... outside of his door at this time of night - no, correct that - this time of the _morning_ , the American had been quick to point out. He certainly _didn't_ want him lingering on the doorstep. But, by asking him to enter the room, he'd asked what he'd wanted of him - yes - but he'd also inadvertently asked what he'd _truly_ wanted to ask. And by saying "please" he had not merely asked - he had _begged_. He tried to beat down the feelings - beat them into submission - but the fact of the matter was, he was a man who had gone hungry for far too long.

Self-consciously - aware that he was only in his vest and all-too aware that his counterpart was dressed so sexually provocatively - Walter rubbed at his bare arms, "Es ist kalt." _It is cold_. He was trying to find an _excuse_ as to why he had invited Hector into his flat - he was trying give _himself_ an excuse as much as anyone. When he said the following, however - he removed all doubt as to his reasoning: "It is warmer in my bed," he stated. Drunken eyes which were loosely trained on him suddenly perked up, and he backtracked, "Where you have so unkindly dragged me out at this time of the night." He turned around to face the cabinet, regather his thoughts; he was being attacked by a barrage of emotions, mostly somewhere on the scale between lust and shame, but he was careful not to let it show in his face, and his training in the field was proving to be highly useful in doing so.

"Morning," the younger man advised him once again. "Like I said - it's the morning," he slurred, as he was presented with a key. It was the key to his flat, but he didn't take it. Instead, he simply stared at Walter. "You can get back to your nice warm bed now, and leave me out here all alone in the cold. _In... der... Kälte_ ," he teased.

"You have a bed of your own," Walter cleared his throat and remained steady.

"Uh-huh... but I doubt I'll be in it," Hector rolled his eyes. They were decorated with dark eye make-up, which was starting to fade. Walter wasn't sure he'd seen a man wearing so much make-up before - if _any_ make-up, really; he wasn't sure why he _liked_ it, either.

"You were dancing with Katie...?" he remembered their earlier conversation.

"Yeah... I was _naughty_ ," the mere word, and the manner in which Hector had said it, propelled shockwaves through Walter. The was something about the way he had pronounced it in his American accent - it was so _effortless_ \- as if what they could have here tonight could be casual, and it didn't have to be scrutinised. "What can I say? I just like being naughty," he repeated it.

"Your lipstick is smudged," Walter told him, flatly.

"Then it can't hurt to smudge it some more, _can_ it?"

Schweppenstette moved to close the door behind Valdez and, as it clicked to, he felt hands roaming his back. He shuddered. And those same hands span him around and shoved him back against the door.

He'd made his first mistake: he'd allowed himself to be ambushed by the enemy, and now he was helpless - he could have pulled away at any time, but he was ensnared by his own desires. He couldn't have moved if he'd tried, what with Hector's mouth nipping and biting at his neck all of a sudden, blood-red lipstick marks adorning the nape, making it look as though he'd been attacked by a vampire; ruby streaks soiling the collar of his white vest, and below, lower, _lower_ , until the foreigner had reached his abdomen and the garment was being tugged aside. A tongue flicked against his belly and he almost had to cut out his _own_ tongue to stop himself from moaning.

His mind was overcome by Comrade Dietrich's words, that - thank goodness - there were no gays in East Germany. And here he was, standing here, with a man from the West disrobing him of his pyjama bottoms, as he willingly allowed it. He wasn't quite sure whether or not he'd been _infiltrated_ or discovered as a _defector_. If this was part of the West's plan to overthrow them, one man at a time, then he was done for. Because he was thoroughly powerless, completely pliable, and - at this moment - it wouldn't have been a stretch for him to have agreed to absolutely _anything_. He prayed that this was not some sort-of recruitment drive for double agents, or other such scheme, because Hector's mouth would have had him signing on the dotted line. Whatever God he was praying to must have had some warped sense of humour.

"Do you like having your dick sucked, Commie?" there was a gasp from between his legs.

Walter gawped at him, blankly. Was this dirty talk? Did he _like_ dirty talk? He wasn't even sure he knew. His cock sighed an almost audible sigh of relief as it was released from his nightwear, for by now it was so absolutely hard, he feared it might rip a hole straight through the material. So it appeared that he probably _did_. But, nonetheless, he looked at Valdez with a disapproving glance which recommended that the American have more respect for his elders and that he should watch his language.

Hector gently raised his eyebrows, as if to apologise - but - not wanting to break the momentum of the scene, he quickly took a hold of Walter's cock within his hand and started to squeeze. And, this time, Walter _did_ moan. Come to mention it, he could hardly _stop_ , once his neighbour had started to fellate him - with each slight curl of the tongue, every tiny sucking motion, duly noted, mentally, as if he was taking notes on the enemy with a pad and pencil. He was so curious about this man... this man who seemed to have so few inhibitions, and so little care about what society may think of him - and he _knew_ he hadn't _that_ much to drink this evening.

"You Americans... are very liberal," he blurted. And he watched as the man clambered to his feet, wiping his mouth with his hand - red lipstick _everywhere_ ; lipstick on faces, lipstick on clothes, lipstick on his cock.

"Freiheit," Hector said, reassuringly. No more than a few days ago, the pair of them had discussed the concept of 'freedom' or 'freiheit' whilst riding the lift together. Walter had offered Hector a Cuban cigar, knowing that they would not have been (easily) available to American citizens, explaining how in East Germany they had the freedom to smoke whatever they wanted. What a joke, he now realised - true freedom was being able to _do_ and _feel_ whatever came naturally, without fear of judgement or persecution. With Hector, he had been able to finally taste _freiheit_ ; with freiheit, he would now taste _Hector_. He lunged towards him, lips-first, and their mouths crashed together in a kiss he would never forget.

Walter wanted to taste the ruined lipstick. He wanted to taste another man. He _wanted_ to taste Valdez. Schweppenstette reached downwards and intertwined the lace of the fishnet stockings between his fingers, hauling the Western agent towards him by his backside, further into the kiss, and tearing the black strings apart so easily, as if they were spider's web. Hector was pressed up against him, not the slightest gap between them. He was desperately erect in his basque, and this hadn't escaped Walter's notice; German hands were frantically grasping at the front of the garment, trying to gain entrance, trying to slip between his skin and the tightness of the silky material.

"It isn't so easy to take off. I'll need to get properly undressed," the younger man told him, and Walter licked his lips in anticipation of seeing his new-found partner _out_ of his lingerie. "How about that nice warm bed of yours?" Hector proposed, and there was a gentle nod - a hand pointing towards the bedroom - with a _smile_.

A marvellous suggestion, Walter had come to decide. He might have thought that Hector was out of his mind - or, worse still - trying to trick Walter into giving away insider information from the HVA - had he have suggested such a notion earlier. But, at this point in time, it, remarkably, made some strange kind of sense. He could only hope that Maria did not have a glass to the wall like he, himself, had done in nights gone by - trying to listen to himself and Hector in the same way that he had tried to spy on _them_.


End file.
